


Black Eye

by Basalit_an



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basalit_an/pseuds/Basalit_an
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair, finding himself in Kirkwall after the Blight, decides he might try to join the Templar Order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic contains depictions of alcoholism and negative attitudes towards alcoholics.

Blue hawk eyes watched the man enter the courtyard of the Templar Hall, scanning the newcomer with merciless precision. Though there was practiced confidence in his stride, his expression betrayed uncertainty and doubt. His head pivoted on his neck as he met the questioning gazes of curious recruits, and his careful, sure step faltered as he was approached by a templar. 

Knight-Commander Meredith watched from the entrance leading to her office, her presence felt by every living being in that courtyard. Her steel gaze moved up and down the newcomer's figure, analyzing every his every inch. He was strong, broad, and didn't look entirely brilliant. A rather promising potential recruit, at least on the surface. But Meredith had learned of a lack of spiritual strength among the templars of Kirkwall. By the Maker, that had to change, and it started with potential recruits. 

This man, however, was more than a simple citizen looking for a job. He was looking for a purpose. She could see it, in the way his jaw tensed as he spoke to the templar, the way his right hand stretched and fidgeted, as if it longed for a sword to hold. This is what caught Meredith's attention, what had lured her outside to meet this man personally. 

Unfortunately, she was disappointed in what she found. 

She approached the man, catching his gaze the moment she moved, and he seemed to freeze for one moment before his hands absently pulled at the powder blue vest he wore, a nervous gesture. Sweeping her gaze over him once more, she saw that he was dressed to impress, wearing quite possibly brand new and expensive clothes, pressed and freshly starched. He stood at attention the moment he locked eyes on her, recognizing either her rank or her face. 

Up close, she saw signs of weakness that told her immediately this one would only end a disappointment: ruddy, blotchy skin, red eyes ringed with dark circles, greasy hair only partially combed through and the unmistakable scent of alcohol. The man wasn't drunk – not that this moment – but the Knight-Commander knew the signs of constant intoxication. A weak-willed individual that could never be prepared to face the demonic nature of apostates and maleficarum. 

She knew already that this man could not be the templar she needed him to be. Still, she waited and listened to what he had to say. 

He introduced himself as simply Alistair – he gave no family name – and said that he had trained with templars before. He said that he already knew many spells and techniques that templars employ, had the training and discipline they were taught. He said that he had “military experience”, yet did not expand upon what experience, exactly. The words he spoke sounded careful, practiced, except for moments when his nerves got the better of him and he started to ramble. Definitely not the brightest, and his penchant for vague answers made the Knight-Commander wary to have him amongst her men.

After his long preamble was over, Meredith simply held his gaze for a long time, drawing out the moment, and he squirmed under her steely stare. She was not being theatrical, but rather making a point. At last, she told him, “I'm afraid I can't use you.” Then, without ceremony, she turned around and headed back to the hall that lead to her office.

The man behind her was stunned silent for all but a brief moment, then he rushed after her, voicing loud protests. Around them, the easily-riled templars put hands to hilts in case this man should turn violent. “Wait, please!” Alistair said as Meredith mounted the stairs. She felt the weight of a hand on her left paldron and that was enough to send her men into action.

A templar stationed near the doorway surged forward, drawing his sword, as two others near the gates ran over. The young man, caught off-guard, whirled around to face the two templars coming from behind him, shouting at him, but it was the man beside Meredith who told Alistair to “Halt! in the name of the—” and before he could utter the Maker's name, Alistair went down.

He stumbled over his own clumsy feet while turning to face the man speaking to him and, no doubt a little dizzy from drink, slammed cleanly into Meredith's boot. She felt the impact of his cheek against the cold steel of her toes, and heard his quiet groan. When he didn't try to rouse himself, the Knight-Commander removed her foot from under his head and turned to continue up the small flight of steps. “Remove him,” she told the templars over her shoulder, and her command was obeyed.

Alistair blacked out on impact with metal, and never felt the strong hands of templars roughly grab him up by the shoulders and drag him out of the courtyard. They left him in a heap by some stalls, where he came to within moments, seeing only black dots in his bleary vision.

He blinked to clear his gaze and immediately felt the hot pain surge from the corner of his left eye where he connected with the Knight-Commander's boot. He put hand to temple, and it came away bloody. What a mess he had made of his first meeting with the woman. Ever since finding his way to Kirkwall after the battle in Denerim, Alistair had been lacking a purpose in his life. He had been betrayed by everyone he cared about, the throne of Ferelden in the hands of Anora and a bastard he had once called a friend. 

After weeks melted away in a wine-flavored daze, he finally got the idea that he could join the templar order in Kirkwall. He had, after all, almost been a templar. Surely that would give him something to do. He'd spent days preparing, practicing what he would say, how he would present himself, getting sobered up for the interview. 

And all for naught. 

He picked himself up, brushing the dirt off the rather ridiculous vest he wore. Perhaps it was a bit much, he realized now. Not that it mattered anymore. He planned to make a beeline for the Hanged Man, get drunk, then try to come up with a new plan. Perhaps move on from Kirkwall. It wasn't really a nice place, anyway. Too bright. 

He turned to leave when a young woman walked up to him. She mad eye-contact, her purpose clear: she was a messenger. “Are you Anders?” she asked him.

“Alistair,” he corrected, but she didn't seem to have heard him, because she pushed a letter into his hands, gave him a cute smile, then disappeared behind a corner before Alistair could even think to react. He just looked down at the envelope in his hands, blinking until the name “Anders” became clear in carefully-printed handwriting. 

Great. His mind checked off the list: first he bunged up his chance to join the templars, sustained head damage, and now he was responsible for this letter addressed to someone he didn't even know! This day could not get worse. He wouldn't let it. He'd rather drown it out in wine.


End file.
